Totally Smashed, Totally Screwed
by changeling17
Summary: England has a little too much to drink and admits some things that he has tried to keep buried. When he wakes up the next morning in France's house and can't remember a thing, he's in for an awkward conversation. NOT a lemon. UKFr. Drunken USxChina
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is just another one of those thingies that float around in my head until I write them down, so I did. YAY!**

**P.S. In this fic they can drive from America to Europe in a car. Um...they're cool like that. Can't you just see the map and the cheesy dotted line and everything? No? Just me then. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did. It's just that simple.**

**THIS IS A TWO-SHOT**

Totally Smashed, Totally Screwed

"Hey guys," America called from across the meeting room in his 'hero' voice, "lets all go out for a drink later in my country! It'll be an Allies' party!"

And so the trouble started.

England was the first to agree, as a man who so loved drinking would be expected to. France volunteered next, and soon after, China. Russia nodded while clarifying that he would bring his own vodka.

And so even bigger trouble started.

When everyone was somewhere around their second glass or mug (or bottle, in Russia's case. Or nothing, in France's case, for he refused to drink their "American backwater") England had already had three, and was falling off his chair.

And so T.R.O.U.B.L.E. started.

You see, England had a VERY low tolerance for alcohol, and yet he had a tendency to consume it in ridiculous quantities.

When he finally dropped like a rag doll, Russia spoke up, "Some one should really take him home."

Unfortunately, it looked like Russia himself was far too busy glaring at America and China while they made out in a corner, America seemingly under the impression that China was some hot girl he had whisked off her feet and China too intoxicated to have ANY idea what he was doing. Seeing this, France sighed. Obviously, it would have to be him. _Merde._

He turned to the heaped figure on the floor, rolling his eyes at how pathetic England looked at that moment. He would have been laughing his head off if the sight had not been so pitiful. As it was, France knew the feeling of being that drunk, and had always hated it. This was one of the reasons that he had abstained from alcohol tonight. _The French drink for pleasure, not for the sake of drinking._

Rolling his eyes yet again, France stooped down and hooked a long arm around England's torso, bringing the Brit's arm over his shoulder and grasping the wrist firmly. He managed to heave the other man into a standing position, but could not go much farther carrying England's full weight.

"Angleterre," France huffed, somehow still managing to sound regal and suave even when catching his breath, "you must walk some on your own. I cannot carry you out of here."

England groggily complied, stumbling toward the door with France holding him up.

When they finally got out to France's car, England had lost the little coherency that he had had previously. Half-dragging the sandy blond around to the passenger door, France opened it with his foot and deposited England unceremoniously inside. The man groaned, but France ignored him and continued prodding his feet and arms into the car with his boot before slamming the door. If England groaned again, France couldn't hear him through the thick metal. He stalked haughtily over to the driver's seat and got inside, irritated that he was being made to act like a chauffeur.

Nonetheless, France reached across England and fastened his seat belt before clicking his own into place and pulling out of the lot.

It was a rather long drive to Europe from America, (not to mention the ocean they had to cross,) but England didn't stir the whole way there. As he drove, France drifted off into his own thoughts, realizing too late that he had turned into his own country instead of England. _Oh well,_ he thought, _I may as well take him to my place. I'm not going to England when I'm already here._

France had a rather harder time getting England into the house, as he was now completely carrying the Brit. Of course, the instant France put him down in one of the spare bedrooms and the work was over, England stirred. France could tell from his eyes that he was still entirely intoxicated, and was surprised when England grabbed his wrist as he made to leave the room.

"Wait."

France turned and studied the blond, "Oui, Angleterre?"

"You're gorgeous." England's speech was only slightly slurred.

"Excusez-moi?" He must have misheard.

"You're really beautiful, France." This time England's words were spoken clearly, though his eyes were still glazed over.

"..." A long silence on France's part, in which several possible responses flashed through his mind, including 'yes.' and 'I'm aware of that.', but he finally settled on "And you're really drunk."

England let out a hoarse laugh. "I..." *pause*, "I know. That doesn't matter."

"I think it does. You would not say this were you sober." France didn't quite know why he was trying to argue with someone this drunk, but he didn't care.

"I wouldn't say it, but I've always thought it."

France couldn't help but note that England was quite eloquent for someone so completely smashed. But it didn't stop there. "I just..." another pause, this one lengthier, while England struggled to translate his turbulent and muddled thoughts into words, "...I just wanted to hide how I feel."

"About what?"

"...You." England practically whispered the word, so that France had to stoop over the bed and bend down to hear it when England repeated it for him. His eyes widened. He was now uncomfortably aware of how physically close they had become in those few seconds.

"And how do you feel about me?" France's voice shook almost imperceptibly.

Instead of answering, England tilted his face up, leaning in ever so slowly...and their lips were so close...and he could smell the alcohol on England's breath...and France stood up sharply.

He had barely said "You need your rest" over his shoulder to the sandy blond man before the door closed behind him.

England would have quite a lot of explaining to do in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So I ended up writing this at night, and...well...I'm tired. I don't know what kind of ending you guys were hoping for, but I hope you like it. YAY YAOI!**

**P.S. I'm so stupid, there's something I left out in the last chapter and I'm too lazy to fix it; France (or his servants) at some point changed England into a pair of pajama pants, so that he would be more comfortable, and because his uniform was dirty from when he fell over. So... England is wearing a pair of pajama pants that aren't his and no shirt. That's important. Not to mention hot... haha I 3 England! ^.^**

**P.P.S. I know that 'Smashed' is a purely American word for 'Drunk' and that the British word is 'Pissed', (sorry starpathfinder, ^.^) but I was going for alliteration. Pardon. I'm annoyed at my more-than-slight abuse of the italics button...oh well... Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Please don't ask me to say it again...**

Totally Smashed, Totally Screwed Chapter 2

As England blinked open his emerald eyes, the first thing he became aware of was a splitting pain in his head. It felt like he had spend the past several hours using his head instead of a clapper inside a gigantic bell.

Mercifully, there were thick curtains drawn over the windows, so the room was reasonably dark. Every creak of the bed springs as he sat up was like a piercing scream with his throbbing head. _I swear I'm never going to drink again. What the bloody hell happened to me last night?_

The last thing that England could remember was somebody helping him up; carrying him to a car, but he could not remember who it had been. England glanced around him, and a growing dread began to fill him, turning him cold. This was most certainly not his house. If someone had helped him into a car while he had been _that _drunk and drove off with him, then, if they were trying to help, surely they would have taken him to his own house. The only reason he would be at someone else's house would be... _No! I didn't! _Was his first thought. Then, after breathing deeply for a few minutes, _Who..._

England couldn't think of anyone at the party who he wouldn't be totally disgusted to have slept with. Sure, he had fancied America when they were younger, but since the younger nation had separated himself from England, he had lost sense of wonder, his interest in the outside world. The once adorably energetic boy had become downright annoying. His respect for himself had turned to utter narcissism, his assertive, outgoing nature had become his trademark 'I'm-the-hero-and-you-all-have-to-back-me-up/do-all-the-fighting-and-I'll-take-the-credit' foreign policy. In short, everything he had loved about America had been replaced with everything he hated. _No,_ England said to himself, _I don't love him. I hope to god this isn't his house. Still_,_ the other options aren't much better. _

_China; I don't have any particular interest in him, and he wouldn't go that far, even drunk. Especially not with me._

_Russia; Not on my life._

_Which leaves...no. No! Bollocks! BOLLOCKS! It would be just like that damn perverted frog to take advantage of me when I was too drunk to resist! I'LL BLOODY KILL HIM!_

England swore loudly at the world, but immediately regretted it; he felt like he might throw up if he moved suddenly again. At least this bought of nausea served to distract him slightly from his rage.

England placed his head on his hands and waited a few minutes while the urge to be sick subsided. _Anyone but the frog, anyone...even America would be better than this. Hell even Russia - no, never mind. Please don't let this be France's house...Please... _

A small voice in the back of his head kept asking why it was such a big disaster if he _did_ sleep with France, but it was studiously ignored by the rest of England's brain, which preferred to wallow in misery.

A careful inspection of the room confirmed his suspicions, as England registered the obvious French architecture and the general smell of coffee and roses, which wasn't really what France smelled like; just his house - _What the bloody hell am I doing? Why do I even _know_ what he smells like! It must be from last night. _

And yet something told England that this was not the case, and, of course, got ignored again.

During his inspection of the room, England's gaze fell on a tray that had been laid out on the bedside table, where two separate cups of something and a small slip of paper had been left for him. He crawled over to it, careful of his hangover-induced stomach pains, and picked up the note with distaste. It read:

_Angleterre,_

_I hope your hangover isn't as bad as your actions last night would suggest. With luck, one of these will help._

_Meet me in the kitchen when you feel well enough, we have much to discuss._

_- France._

England snarled and crumpled the paper angrily. _Damn that bloody frog._ One phrase of the note had stood out to the Brit. _As your actions last night would suggest...?_

_DAMN HIM!_ Looking back to the contents of the tray, England realized that each had a small piece of paper in front of them. The one on the left was labeled 'Tea' and the one on the right was labeled 'Coffee'. France had written that one of these might help his hangover.

England reached out a hand and touched the side of the cup that contained tea. It was still hot. He brought it to his face and sniffed. It smelled alright. Surely France wouldn't try to poison him...

And his hangover was AWEFUL. _Maybe even..._

France twirled gracefully through the kitchen, making brunch for himself and his guest. He looked up at the sound of footsteps, and saw England, shirtless and wearing an old pair of France's pajama pants. They had shrunk in the wash and were too short for him, but they fit England very well. France found himself smirking. Sure, he insulted the Brit almost daily, but France could not deny that he was attractive, and if the things he had said last night were true... "Last night was...interesting." France said, unintentionally speaking his thoughts aloud.

England's face contorted with anger and he lurched forward, intending to punch the Frenchman, but a wave of dizziness overtook him and he staggered, protesting furiously when he felt those long arms catch him.

"Now now, _mon cher_, let's not be hasty."

England could only glare at the other nation as he was half-carried to one of France's kitchen chairs.

France left him there and returned to his cooking. "Did you drink the tea or the coffee?" He asked out of curiosity, glancing over his shoulder at the man still seated at his table.

"Both." England just barely managed to grumble loud enough for France to hear him over the sizzle of the eggs in the pan.

France let out a musical laugh. "And did they help?"

"NO!" England shouted angrily, but France could see that he regretted it instantly, as the Brit turned slightly green.

"Do you feel as if you may be sick?" France inquired, setting a mushroom and gruyere omelette in front of him, taking his own and sitting across from England at the small table.

"Yeah," the Brit grumbled half-heartedly, mostly because the food smelled delicious, and despite his stomach pains he was suddenly ravenous.

"You don't have to eat much then, but it would be good to get some food into your system." France said with a kind smile.

England glared back. "I don't know if your French slop would do me any good."

Although making every effort to display disgust as he ate, the plate was clean in less than two minutes.

France smirked a little as he watched the Brit eat his breakfast as if it was his first meal in weeks. _The food he's used to must really be terrible. I make a point of not trying it. Once was quite enough._

"I must say, I'm impressed that you remember anything from last night, you seemed barely conscious." France remarked, picking up England's empty plate and taking it back to the sink.

England glowered at the Frenchman's back. "I don't. But it's bloody obvious what you did. You added me to your collection."

France turned to him, utter incredulity written across his face, along with traces of anger and something else...hurt?

"Angleterre, I did _not _take advantage of you last night."

England snorted. "Oh, really? What would you call it then? Casual rape?"

France's eyes narrowed. "I would not _rape_ you, Englishman."

"Why? Am I too worthless for even that?" England was suddenly furious. He didn't want to hear about how he was never good enough. "What was it then? You were bored and I was available? Because clearly you would rather it had been _anyone_ else. I wasn't even worth the occupied place in your bed! I was just a way to pass the ti-"

The Brit's angry rant was cut short when France slapped him hard across the face.

"_Vous assumez troup, Angleterre!_ We did not have sex last night!"

There was a long pause.

"But-" England was cut off yet again.

"Are you sore? Did you even think about that?" France gestured in the direction of England's hips frustratedly.

England shifted uncomfortably. It was true that he was not sore, and he _hadn't_ thought about that. But he wasn't quite ready to trust the frog. "Who says I bottomed?"

"But you contradict yourself, Angleterre. How could I take advantage of you if _you_ had topped _me_?" France seemed to be calming down as he saw that England could not make much of an argument.

England seemed to be struggling internally, but his shoulders soon slumped in defeat. "I'm sorry I accused you, then." He muttered, seemingly annoyed at himself for actually _apologizing_ to a Frenchman.

France sighed softly, "I understand, Angleterre. But believe me when I say that I would never do that to you. It wouldn't be worth it."

Something shattered inside of the Brit. "Yeah. Who would want me?" Came the soft whisper, as England voiced the one thought that had been haunting his heart for centuries.

The other nation didn't hear him. "Now, _mon cher_, we must discuss last night." France straightened up as England buried his head in his hands.

"What happened?" Came the muffled question. Had he revealed his hidden insecurities? Probably. And France was going to use them to blackmail him.

"You... shall I say... confessed to having feelings for me. And then you tried to kiss me."

England's head shot up. "W-What?"

"The words you used were 'gorgeous' and 'beautiful'."

As England's face went tomato red, France just managed to hide his smirk behind a hand by pretending to scratch his nose.

"Y-You're lying! I never said that!" England was finding it difficult to breathe.

France could no longer hide his smirk as he bent forward, placing his hands on the armrests and trapping the petrified Brit against the back of the chair. "But why would I lie about this, Angleterre?"

England was caught off guard by this question. Why _would _he lie? It couldn't be to get him in bed. The frog had already said he wasn't wanted there, that it wouldn't be worth it. "Why don't you tell me."

France laughed softly again. "I admit, I _might _lie about this to get you into my sheets, especially when you look so _tempting_," here he glanced pointedly down at England's bare chest, then back up to his expressive, forest green eyes, "but, I'm hoping that I wont have to manipulate you for that."

England swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "You don't want me. No one does."

The other nation was silent for a long time, before, without warning, he slammed his lips onto those of a very surprised Englishman.

After a few seconds, France pulled back slightly, letting their foreheads rest against each other. England was breathing as if he had just run a marathon.

"I'm afraid that is where you are wrong, _mon cher_. In fact, you are the first person that I want more from than physical satisfaction. I may be the country of love, but I must admit, the true form of the emotion is new to me."

England was speechless. _Love...?_ "You said it wouldn't be worth it." He challenged, daring the other to take back or deny his words.

France sighed and pulled back, wanting to look into the other's eyes. However England was pointedly not looking at him. France didn't attempt to force him, but merely spoke his mind to the side of England's face.

"_Oui_, it would not be worth lowering myself that much further in your eyes, just for one night of sex that you didn't even want. I suppose I held onto the hope that you didn't hate me as much as you said."

England turned to look him straight in the eyes, and France felt his heart shiver.

"I _do_ hate you, git. I just..." The Brit seemed to struggle with putting his feelings into words, so instead he pulled France into a fierce kiss, sliding his tongue into the obliging mouth, exploring this new warmth.

France responded in eagerly, and in only a matter of minutes England was being led back to the bedroom. When they entered, England was anxious to continue where they had left off, but something stopped him.

"France, what is this?" He had to know.

"This is called sex, _mon cher_. Surely even the English know what that is." France said impatiently.

England hesitated. "But is this sex, or..." The Brit couldn't quite bring himself to say _love making,_ but France seemed to understand what he meant, and gave him a rare chaste kiss.

"_Non, Angleterre._ This is more." France assured, amused by this display of romanticism from the other.

England growled at him, also noticing how _sappy_ that had sounded. In contrast, he added, "It had bloody well better be, and if you think I'm going to bottom, you're mistaken."

France laughed yet again, wrapping his arms around the Brit's thin waist. "_Bien sûr que non, Angleterre. Du moins pas la première fois..._" He trailed off suggestively.

"Shut up." England snapped, shoving the other back onto the bed.

England knew that they would probably never stop bickering. He knew that there were hardships ahead. He knew that they were certainly an odd and unlikely couple, but he'd be damned if the Frenchman didn't make him happier than he had ever been in his life.

**A/N: So there you have it ladies and gentleman! Hope you like it!**

**Translations:**

**Mon cher: my dear**

**Angleterre: England**

**Vous assumez troup!: You assume too much!**

**Bien sûr que non, Angleterre. Du moins pas la première fois...: Of course not, England. At least not the first time...**

**Review!**


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